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The minute Hanks sees that smooth, bland face coming his way, he knows this is something Jeffrey cooked up just to fuck with him. Not that he doesn’t deserve it, considering the hell he generally puts Jeffrey through, but, still.
It’s only been half an hour since he left Jimmy’s Bar, but he already feels like he needs another stiff drink.
“Lieutenant Anderson?” asks the baby-faced newcomer.
“Who wants to know?”
“My name’s Connor. I’m the doctor sent by The Detroit Center for Modern Medicine. You haven’t been answering my calls.”
Hank huffs. “Clearly you didn’t stay for the answering machine.”
“I did,” Connor says, matter-of-factly. “I left you several messages.”
“Then maybe you should have your ears checked.”
Hank makes no secret of how much he hates everything about phones. Even in his youth he was considered something of a weirdo for how much he despised the already commonplace idea of the smartphone, but they just never appealed to him.
It’s probably some kind of daddy issue or whatever. Hank’s well aware he’s fucked up. It is how it is.
“As a doctor,” Connor continues, unperturbed, “I pay close attention to my own health, and, while self-diagnosing is discouraged, I can assure you my hearing is fine.”
Hank’s starting to wonder if this kid needs an irony supplement.
“Okay. I’ll bite. What the hell do you want?”
A ghost of a smile quirks Connor’s lips, and Hank hates himself a little bit for noting how it takes his face from borderline disturbing in its smoothness to devastatingly beautiful in the blink of an eye. What a difference such a tiny thing can make.
“As you’re probably aware, Detroit PD has been instructed by the city council to have all its employees undergo a mandatory physical, as a part of the New City Fitness Initiative. I’ve set up a temporary clinic in meeting room three, and I was told the captain would inform you all via email to drop by at your convenience sometime during this week. If you have not received this information, please consider this your personally delivered message.”
Hank blinks as Connor speaks in a tone of voice not unlike a robotic public information hotline. He only barely represses the urge to ask Connor to say what time it is. Mostly because it would reveal more blatantly than his gray hair just how old he is.
“Well. Then I guess you can consider that message received.”
That tiny smile is back, and it’s a little distracting. “Excellent!” Connor says, as if he just closed a lucrative business deal. “So can I expect to see you sometime today?”
“What? No! I got shit to do!”
“As does every other employee here, which is why it is explicitly stated to only be at your convenience.”
“Well, today will not be at my convenience!”
It’s as if Connor’s face only has the capability for micro-expressions, because when he frowns it’s tiny and gone in a flash. It makes Hank itch to wind him up, just to see what it takes to make him emote like a real person.
“If that truly is the case then I should warn you, I’m only here today and tomorrow, as everyone else found a moment in their busy schedules earlier in the week. I don’t mean to be blunt, Lieutenant, but we’re all just waiting for you. Are you sure you can’t spare five minutes right now?”
“About as sure as I am that this guy is dead as a door nail,” Hank says meanly, and brings up the tab on his screen that shows the grizzly photos of his latest murder scene. He’s hoping this disturbingly smooth kid of a doctor doesn’t have the stomach for it and will leave him alone.
Surprisingly, Connor leans in closer, studies the pictures and nods slowly. “I’d say that would be a safe bet. Considering he lacks a head. And several internal organs. And a couple of external ones as well.”
Hank can’t decide if he’s more annoyed that his ploy didn’t work, or impressed at Connor’s strong stomach. Even though it’s just pictures, Hank had lost his lunch when he saw his first crime scene, and he’d felt well-prepared for it. Connor had this sprung on him out of nowhere, and seems to find it no more upsetting than the local burger joint’s menu.
“You’re a cool fucking customer about this,” he can’t help but say, and Connor turns to meet his gaze. He’s a lot closer now, and his eyes are interesting. Brown with flecks of something shiny. It’s almost mesmerizing.
“Once you’ve done a few autopsies and literally held someone’s brain in your hands, it stops being a novelty rather quickly,” Connor says, again with that tiny smile.
Hank needs him to leave now.
“Look, kid, I’ve got a serial killer on my hands, I promise I’ll come see you when I got a minute, alright?”
He’s got no intention of doing anything of the sort, of course, but he’s done with this conversation now. He’s got better things to do. Like solving crimes and drink away the ridiculous notions in his head reminding him that he used to find other people appealing, back before his entire life was fucked.
“Very well, Lieutenant. I’ll be expecting you sometime before five PM tomorrow. After that you’ll have to make arrangements with your superiors to have your physical done elsewhere.”
“Gotcha. Thanks,” Hank adds, digging out those good manners he usually reserves for next of kin. Anything to make this weirdly attractive department store mannequin of a doctor go away.
Connor smiles again, and leaves without another word. Hank watches him leave, and allows himself a full minute of just trying to wrap his head around what the hell just happened.
- - -
Mistakes were made. Hank can see that now. He should have just cleanly avoided Connor like the plague, because now that he’s found his way in, he’s sticking to Hank like a burr over the next two days.
He seems to go out of his way to drop by Hank’s desk as soon as he sits down for more than a minute, and then needle him about his physical. It’s incredibly annoying. If only it was annoying enough to make Hank stop noticing how goddamn pretty Connor is.
“Lieutenant. Got a minute?”
“No.”
“Pity,” Connor says, and then leans on the next desk, looking effortlessly gorgeous in a way that’s offensive to everything Hank is. Except maybe his half-forgotten libido. “You don’t have any more crime scene photos you want my medical opinion on?”
Hank narrows his eyes at Connor. His voice is as bland as it always is, but Hank wouldn’t get away with half the amount of shit he pulls if he wasn’t still a great detective. Connor is interested.
“You know what, I do have a few more. Take a look, tell me what you think.” He’s legitimately curious about what Connor might get from the photos. It’s tricky case, and Hank might be an asshole, but he’s not too proud to ask for help to solve a case, even from people who annoy the shit out of him. It’s how he survives working in the same building as Gavin Reed.
Connor leans in just slowly enough to make it look casual, but Hank doesn’t miss the eagerness. That’s why he didn’t flinch the first time. He was already fascinated with crimes in the first place. Probably why he volunteered to do random physicals at the local PD, when he’s clearly well educated enough to have done autopsies. He’s not a kid at all, despite his youthful face.
It’s possible Hank is seeing himself a little in Connor. While his drive for becoming a cop always has been – and always will be – his thirst for justice, you don’t become a homicide detective if you don’t at the very least find the concept intriguing. You won’t last long if you do.
“A different angle,” Connor says, eyes darting across the images. Without hesitation he reaches out to swipe through them and pick a few for a closer look. He’s standing pretty closely, and Hank becomes suddenly hyper aware that he stinks of bourbon.
But Connor seems to not notice at all, caught up in the images. “These wounds are interesting. Do we know what weapon was used? They looks cauterized.”
“No weapon yet, but yeah, we noticed the burns too.”
“I’m assuming it was not done to limit bleeding, considering the amount of blood around the body.”
“Doesn’t seem like our killer is the neat type.”
Connor’s face is so close that Hank has a front row seat to all the micro-expressions, and it’s impossible to look away as he frowns and purses his lips in tiny little motions.
“I’m not sure I agree. There’s a lot of blood, but the way it’s fanning out… it seems almost deliberate.”
“Huh. You think they wanted to paint a picture?”
“Maybe. The body itself seems discarded, but maybe it only appears so to us. Maybe the killer had a specific image in mind?”
It’s a stroke of genius, and Hank is immediately thinking back to older cases with similar setups, trying to remember a match. He’s got a few possibilities already, and he doesn’t hesitate to start going through case files.
“You just got us a new lead, Connor. Good job,” Hank says, weirdly proud of the kid in the tiny part of his mind not already hip deep in chasing the new angle.
“You’re welcome, Lieutenant. Perhaps you could repay me by coming to my clinic? Five minutes, I promise.”
Hank grins. “Not when you just got me a new lead. Gotta strike when the iron’s hot. You only got yourself to blame for keeping me busy.”
He can see out of the corner of his eye how Connor straightens up, and only then realizes that he hadn’t moved away when Hank took over the screen again. Dammit, he definitely smelled the booze on him.
“I can’t bring myself to be sorry if it was helpful to the case. I’ll come by again later.”
- - -
True to his word, Connor comes by half an hour later. And half an hour after that. And half an hour after that. Hank ends up fleeing the station, and – surprising himself more than anyone else – does actual work, rather than just pickle his brain at Jimmy’s.
And while it is supremely annoying, the main frustration isn’t that Connor is doggedly trying to lure him in for the physical he’s gonna go to when it’s snowing in hell. No, the biggest issue is that Hank finds himself liking the guy. Aside from the obvious weirdness of his disturbingly perfect face, he’s clever, eager and subtly sarcastic. And somehow he’s not at all put off by Hank’s blatant rudeness.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t you ever go home?” Hank moans as he returns to the station much later, only to find Connor leaning on a desk again. Hank’s this time. He obligingly moves when Hank sits down and wakes up his computer. He tries not to notice how the table is warm under his wrists.
“Yes, and I am on my way out, as a matter of fact. But I decided to give it one last try.”
“You’re shit outta luck, kid,” Hank says bluntly, and deliberately avoids looking at Connor.
He shrugs, and then hoists himself fully onto the next desk in a smooth movement. Hank keeps his eyes on the screen so firmly that they start to water.
“Too bad. Any progress?”
“Maybe. Got a few possible cases to check out for similarities. It’s not likely to be a copycat, it’s just not similar enough in the broad strokes. I’m thinking it might have been to prove a point, not to cash in on another killer’s fame.”
Connor nods. “Sounds plausible. Have you had cases like this before?”
“Couple times, yeah. The cauterized wounds are a new one, though.”
“Have you considered the killer might have a medical background?”
Hank turns to frown at him. “With a scene this grizzly? Not likely. There’s no precision at all.”
“Not everyone in the medical field are surgeons. But having a job in medicine does mean access to more unusual murder weapons. Like a laser cautery.”
“Laser?”
“Yes, a surgical laser, used instead of a scalpel. It cauterizes blood vessels as it cuts, decreasing blood loss during operations. When used expertly it makes a very neat job of incisions. When used by an amateur...”
As Hank thinks it over it all starts coming together for him, combined with what he already knows, and it just might be enough to get him somewhere.
“You know what, that’s actually very useful. Could be a solid lead!” he says, unable to stop the grin widening on his face.
Connor is wearing an actual full smile now, joining in the delight, and, god, Hank is going to have a real problem if that smile starts popping up on a regular basis. It sits crooked on Connor’s weirdly symmetrical face and makes him look devastatingly human and real.
“I’m glad I could be of assistance, Lieutenant.”
“Yeah. Yeah,” Hank says with a slow nod, because he’s increasingly losing his ability to string words together the longer he looks at that smile.
“I can see you’re already following your new lead, so I’ll leave you to it. I’ll see you sometime tomorrow. Remember, I’m only here until five PM.”
Hank rolls his eyes. “Get the fuck outta here.”
“Have a good night, Lieutenant,” Connor greets, and then picks up his coat from a chair, putting on actual fucking mittens and a beanie as he leaves, and Hank is left staring after him, wondering what the hell Connor even is.
- - -
When Hank shows up to work the next morning – actual morning, not Hank morning – firstly, Jeffrey looks like he’s seen a ghost, which might be appropriate considering that Hank feels like the walking dead. Secondly, his desk is occupied again, Connor once again having parked his butt right in front of the PC screen.
And, thirdly… Hank isn’t even upset about it.
For the first time in months he’s spent half the night chasing leads, rather than chasing one neat drink with the next. And while the shaky hands and blurry vision definitely tells him he’s got more than just a hangover happening to him, he’s in a decently good mood.
At least until he remembers that Connor is a doctor and will badger him about the physical again. Which Hank will keep ignoring, even more so now when he’s literally suffering alcohol withdrawal. No way in hell is he gonna sit through a lecture on something he’s well aware of and currently both unable and unwilling to change. Thank fuck he brought coffee.
He’s just starting to regret showing up to work at all when Connor spots him and smiles. And not just that tiny, crooked thing either. A wide, delighted smile, like seeing Hank makes his entire morning.
Hank can’t even fucking remember the last time someone looked at him like that. Or if anyone over the age of six ever even has. Christ, he had a shitty marriage.
“Lieutenant!” Connor calls out. “I was given the impression that waiting for you to arrive would be – in their own words – my funeral. I’m so glad to see they were mistaken.”
Hank falls into his creaky desk chair with a tired groan, and tries very hard to ignore how Connor is still planted on the desk right in front of him as he slurps his coffee. “If that’s all it takes to make your day, I’d hate to see your social life.”
“My social life would be somewhat better if you could find a minute to come see me sometime today before five PM so I can finish my report without working late on a Friday,” Connor says archly, and Hank’s way too sober for this conversation.
It’s a valid complaint, and Hank feels appropriately shitty about it. Not that feeling shitty about stuff has ever made him more cooperative, but he assumes that being capable of the feeling at all anymore earns him some brownie points.
Taking that into consideration, he decides that if – if, by some wild coincidence – he finds himself bored at any time today, he’ll consider going to see Connor.
“Sure, if this serial killer just happens to wander right into custody, begging to be cuffed and processed before five, I’m all yours.”
Connor rolls his eyes. “I’m assuming the odds of that are not in my favor?”
“You’d assume right. Now get your ass off my desk, some of us have work to do.”
The exasperated look Connor gives him is well deserved, Hank’s well aware. But he’s got bigger things to worry about than his attitude problem. Things like murders.
His goddamn desk is warm again, fuck his life.
- - -
As if to mock Hank specifically, the very first place he goes to check out reveals the perp, literally passed out drunk on a mountain of trophies. It’s gonna take a long time to process everything, but once the guy is slapped awake and interrogated, folding immediately like a house of very gross cards, there’s literally no more rush. It’s just about the most open and shut case Hank has ever done, and he’d be suspicious about that if there was even the tiniest niggle of doubt. But there’s not. He spent all night chasing leads and making connections, and he got lucky. It happens.
Which means that it’s barely past noon when Hank realizes there’s no escaping Connor any longer.
Hank’s out of the station like his ass is on fire.
Not to leave Connor in a lurch. He pretty much promised he’d show up – legitimately, this time – and he’s just barely not enough of an asshole to break an honest promise. But there’s no way in hell he’s showing up sober. If he’s destined to sit through a mortifying five to ten minutes of being told he needs to exercise more and eat his greens and also maybe stop pickling his liver, then he’s damn well gonna be hammered for it.
Mid-afternoon Hank is back, heavily boozed up, and only putting one foot in front of the other by virtue of years of practice.
He knocks on the door to Connor’s temporary office, and doesn’t wait for a response before opening the door. The last thing he remembers is Connor’s surprised face and glowing smile.
- - -
“Ugh, fuck,” Hank groans as he wakes up. He’s on one of the shitty police station couches, which is nothing new. Turning over reveals that it’s dark outside, and the only light in the room comes from a small desk lamp, and from a laptop… which Connor is now slowly closing.
Aw, crap.
“What the fuck happened?” Hank slurs, clutching his head when there’s a mighty throb.
“You don’t remember?”
“Nothing since I came in here, no,” Hank admits with some measure of concern. He’s never been a black-out type of drunk.
There’s a moment where Connor regards him, as if deciding what to do with him, before he leans forward in his chair, hands clasped in front of him.
“I’m going to go ahead and assume you don’t want any sugar coating.”
“You’d be assuming right,” Hank says on a groan as he manages to sit up. “Hate that shit.”
Connor nods, and as soon as he manages to catch Hank’s eyes, he lets him have it.
“You were highly intoxicated, underslept and on an empty stomach. You attempted to take your shirt off, and didn’t seem to hear me when I tried to tell you that wouldn’t be necessary, so I asked you to have a seat instead. Which you did. And then passed out.”
“Fuck.”
“I’d have to agree with that assessment,” Connor says, by some miracle not looking upset or angry at all.
“How are you so chill about this?” Hank has to ask, because he definitely ruined Connor’s day. It’s way, way past five PM.
Connor huffs an amused breath through his nose. “Because. It’s not every day someone is so nervous about seeing me that they have to consume near-lethal amounts of alcohol to overcome it. I can’t condone that kind of thing, of course. But it is quite adorable.”
“Adorable?!”
“Unless the reason is a debilitating phobia of doctors in general, in which case I would highly advise you to seek treatment for that. But something tells me that’s not your issue,” he says, eyes twinkling.
And he’s right.
One of the reasons Hank has had such a successful career is that he’s competitive. He hates losing, and right now he feels like he’s lost whatever game it is they’ve been playing for the past few days. But he can’t feel too upset about it when Connor is still looking at him with that playful gaze, like he doesn’t think Hank is a wreck of a man. Like he isn’t a washed up, drunken version of a once functional human being.
Connor looks at him like he’s worth something, and Hank didn’t even know he still had the emotional capacity to feel flattered by it. But he is. And it’s enough to make him want to try. Try and be just a little better, make just a little effort for once. Hell, maybe positive reinforcement doesn’t just work on dogs and kids.
“No, uh,” he manages after just staring for a while, which Connor doesn’t seem to mind. “No that’s not. My issue, I mean. Not entirely, anyway.”
“Oh?” Connor says, mild concern replacing the playfulness, and Hank hurries to explain, hoping to get it back. Concern is exactly what he doesn’t want from Connor. Or anyone, for that matter.
“I just don’t want some stranger to sit there and lecture me on all the shit I already know I’m doing wrong. I drink too much, I eat crap food, don’t exercise. I already know, so it’s just a waste of time,” he says with an annoyed huff.
Connor snorts out something like a laugh, but even if it’s at Hank’s expense, he can’t help but love it, his eyes drawn to that rare smile, pulling at Connor’s smooth cheek.
“Is that what you thought this was?”
“Yeah, isn’t that what a physical is?”
“It can be,” Connor says, smile still on his face, but his voice definitely creeping into medical professional. “If those are concerns you wish to address, then, yes, we would have discussed them. But this particular initiative is more about what we can do, not what we should do. Something you would have known if you’d read the email,” he points out, and Hank feels appropriately shamed.
“I deserved that,” he says with a groan. “So what is it about?”
“I would have asked you a series of brief questions about how you feel your health and well-being is in general. The only reason a doctor is asking them, is to be available to answer questions or offer solutions to whatever issues each person might want to focus on. If you’d answered all the questions with no comment and walked out that would have been sufficient. No need to take your shirt off, but I do appreciate the gesture,” Connor adds with a wink, and Hank feels hot under the collar.
Which reminds him that he’s been sitting there on the couch, shirt half unbuttoned, for this entire conversation, and he sheepishly starts doing up buttons.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, but Connor just leans back in his chair, giving Hank a once-over so blatant it’s like he can physically feel it.
“Don’t bother on my account,” he purrs, and Hank desperately wishes he was properly sober so he could be more coherent and put together than he is right now.
“You’re seriously not saying you’re into… well, this,” he says, vaguely gesturing at himself. His messy hair, his flabby gut, worn shirt, wrinkles and significant hangover. He must look horrendous.
Connor shrugs. “I’ll admit, the liquor smell is a little overpowering, and I’d rather discuss this at a time when you’re more sober. But yes. I have a type.”
“Your type is old and decrepit?” Hank can’t help but ask, and Connor rolls his eyes.
“No. My type is men who are older and larger than I am. Powerful and confident. Men who have experience and competency. And, since you’ve already aired some dirty laundry, I might as well admit that I’m drawn to men who seem a little broken, perhaps a little sad, and I am considering unpacking that at some point. But, right now, you owe me an evening.”
Taking all that in and coming back to the conversation at hand is a little rough, but Hank’s pickled brain finally gets there. And while he’s probably going to feel more uneasy about it later, right now he’s more focused on the fact that Connor apparently genuinely wants him. Will wonders never cease.
“That’s true. What can I do to make it up to you?”
Connor purses his lips like he’s considering it, but it’s too theatrical to be genuine, and it’s barely a second before he’s got an answer. “Take me somewhere. Your house or an establishment of some kind, you decide. A meal would be nice, but not a requirement. Your fully consenting and sober presence would be the main attraction, you understand.”
“Gotcha,” Hank says, hoping he comes off more suave than he feels. “How about tomorrow night, my house? I’ll bring home some nice crime scene photos for you to look through.”
“Sweeping me off my feet already,” Connor jokes, but Hank doesn’t miss the sincere excitement beneath the mirth.
“Just wait, I cook a mean bolognese.”
Connor grins. “A home cooked meal? Pulling out all the stops. Don’t tell you me you also have a dog, you’re starting to look like my perfect man.”
Hank gusts out a laugh. “I do, actually.”
It’s honestly both funny and adorable how Connor sits up straight, eyes wide. “You’re serious?!”
“Name’s Sumo. Big lug who drools everywhere,” Hank says with a nod, digging out his phone from his pocket to show Connor a picture.
“I love him,” Connor says, and, god, the way he lights up and forgets he was flirting makes something long forgotten perk up in Hank’s gut. Connor is gorgeous and real and human, and Hank wants to give him anything he wants.
“Fuck, you’re pretty,” he can’t help but mutter, still too drunk to fully control his filter, but Connor’s slow smile tells him it’s not unwelcome.
“Feel free to tell me more tomorrow night. I’ll bring the questionnaire.”
Hank can’t help but bark out a surprised laugh. “Right, right. Business before pleasure, I get it.”
“And I do hope tomorrow will be… pleasurable,” Connor murmurs, and if Hank was just a little less drunk he would be at least at half mast at that implication. It’s been far too long since he’s gotten laid.
“You can count on it,” Hank promises, because while he feels like half the man he used to be, he’s never had any complaints in the sack. He can make Connor feel good. And fucking hell, does he ever want to. “Tomorrow, then,” he says, getting off the couch with most of his dignity intact, and Connor stands up too, shutting his laptop and getting his coat.
“I’ll walk you out.”
It’s a lot less awkward than Hank would have expected, walking through the thinly populated bull pen at ass o’ clock in the morning with Connor primp and proper next to him, pulling mittens on and looking for all the world like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. But it will tomorrow. Hank will make sure of it.
“Here’s my number,” Connor says as they exit the station, his breath a white cloud in front of his face, and his nose already going pink in the cold as he hands Hank a business card. On the front is everything you’d expect, but on the back is his private number, scribbled neatly in pen. “Be sure to let me know when I should arrive, and text me your address.”
As if realizing he sounds like he’s going to a job interview and not a date, he shakes his head at himself and fixes Hank with warm brown eyes. “I’m sorry, I haven’t done this in a while.”
“Ditto,” Hank says, wishing abruptly that he didn’t smell like a brewery so he could have tried for a kiss under the streetlight. He could warm Connor’s cold lips, for sure.
Connor seems to be thinking similar things, because he takes Hank’s hand in his own, and brings to his cheek.
“Tomorrow,” he murmurs, and turns his head to leave a slow, lingering kiss on Hank’s palm, making his already unsteady knees wobble even more.
“Yeah. Yeah, tomorrow,” Hank promises, and watches Connor as he gets in his car and drives off.
Well, shit. Hank Anderson has a date with a hot young doctor.
He may or may not have a skip in his step as he heads for his own car.
Tomorrow.
End.